


By the Light of the Moon

by fayetality



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Sunaosa, M/M, Miya Atsumu has Problems, Pining Miya Atsumu, Pygmalion AU, Sculptor and Sculpture, alternative universe, implied past atsukita
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:33:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23750896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayetality/pseuds/fayetality
Summary: It was beautiful. He was beautiful. Atsumu refused to believe this idol before him had been crafted by his own hand, molded from the gentle whittle of his instruments.He traced a finger crusted with dust along the statue’s jaw, small stripes of powder streaking the valley of the neck in his wake. He traced and traced and traced until his hands had touched every part of the sculpture. He traced until the unyielding stone softened into warm skin, moving his hands across each joint to grant the gift of motion. He traced until Kiyoomi lifted his arms to join him, hands interwoven in an exploration of his body, reaching and touching in tandem together.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 29
Kudos: 181





	By the Light of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic is inspired by the sculptor!Atsumu/sculpture!sakusa AU that Zean (@onniegiri on twitter) drew! Her drawings are all so pretty go check her out  
> If you wanna follow me on twitter you can find me @catboyhokage  
> I shitpost and scream about sakuatsu constantly but I'm not actually funny so follow at your own risk<3

Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains of Atsumu Miya’s studio, illuminating a sloping set of shoulders hunched over a cluttered workbench. Papers were strewn about, some half crumpled and others completely torn to shreds. Fingers tugging loose strands of hair, Atsumu scribbled and scrawled, lost in the art of lead and anatomy. 

He was attempting -- emphasis on attempting -- to do preliminary sketches for his latest work in progress: a full bodied sculpture made entirely of slick marble. And yet…

Atsumu couldn’t, for the life of him, draft anything of merit. Every time he thought of an idea, it slipped through his grasp like the thin trail of smoke of a dying stove flame and he was unable to capture it and translate it onto paper. Frankly, it was driving him crazy.

To be fair, this was no ordinary project. It was his very first commission as a solo artist, and he had every intention of blowing his client’s expectations for him completely out of the water. The request came a few weeks after he had completed his final apprenticeship, and was for one of the most wealthy families in all of Italy. 

So, yeah, no pressure or anything.

He was by no means a novice in the field. Recently a bright eyed graduate of Florence’s renowned Medici Academy, Atsumu’s technical skill and detail orientation had already made him a household name among wealthy aesthetes across the nation. His highly anticipated creations often shocked even his own teachers, the amount of precision he presented matching levels attained only by the most prestiged of sculptors. 

But now, faced with the task at hand, he was hesitant (for the first time in his life, if you can believe it). Because this wasn’t for any old aristocratic family: this was for the Visconti of Milan. When he first got the letter, he refused to believe that he had really been commissioned by the ruling family of the city of the north, but there was no doubt to be had once his eyes fell on the waxy crest neatly pressed into the envelope corner. It had even been addressed to him by name. 

It wasn’t a terribly specific request. In fact, it had no constraints at all. The family had requested a simple full figured male, lean and strong, something that would represent the ‘strength and tenacity of the prosperous Visconti of Milan’, blah blah blah. Atsumu wasn’t one for patrician bullshit, but he was grateful for the leniency. He thought it would allow him to foster his creativity in a way he couldn’t in his classes. That was, until he began to sketch. 

He tore at his drawing book, carving half shaded designs and lopsided figures into the pages. Atsumu was growing increasingly frustrated as more and more failed drawings piled up around him. He felt caged by his freedom, the wildness of his creativity crowding the room so entirely that he could barely move a muscle, let alone draw something worth sculpting. 

After hours of non-stop fussing over lines that seemed to cross in all the wrong places, and shade in all the wrong curves, the sculptor hurled his chair back and began to pace.

He spent quite a bit of time doing this, restless energy grounding itself out into the floor until, at last, his limbs no longer buzzed with electricity. While he surely felt less pent up, the reprieve did nothing for his mind, and a frustrated sigh hissed past his lips. He needed to get out. 

Leaving his desk for Future Atsumu to clean, he grabbed his bag and set off for the marketplace. His studio wasn’t far from the city center, and in no time, he found himself drowning in the sounds of summer. 

Merchants were selling sugary shaved ice crowned with rings of figs, carts scattered around peddling sun-warmed berries and yellowed pears. Children, teens, and adults alike wove through the crowds, the younger ones twirling and chasing one another while the adults strolled languidly, scouring the surrounding products for the cheapest price. Bottles of pressed olives clinked in harmony with smacks of feet on the stone road, stall owners calling out to casual shoppers in search of homes for their hard earned harvest. 

The cacophony was enough to drive any coherent thought from Atsumu’s mind. He relished in the sensations, allowing his attention to flit from stall to stall, buyer to seller, parent to child. The last thing on his mind was the responsibility waiting patiently at home for him, preferring instead to bask in the art of the city and its various thrills. 

Atsumu made his way over to the market’s center, an island of calm green surrounded by the sea of society. Here the atmosphere was a bit more relaxed. Blankets were spread for lounging, bags of the day’s purchases temptingly close, the sun warming tanned flesh along with the skins of fruits. The steady sunshine whittled at the resolve of parents who found themselves placating restless children by placing coins in the palms of their hands, the recipients instantly dashing off to purchase cones of sticky roasted nuts. 

With a satisfied sigh, Atsumu dropped his bag on an empty spot in the grass and took a seat beside it, resting his weight on his arms stretched behind him. People-watching was one of his favorite hobbies and main sources of inspiration. He figured he might as well kill two birds with one stone; resting his overexerted mind as well as finding a muse for his next project. 

It really was such a nice day, one of the nicest he had felt in a while. Thoroughly sundrunk, Atsumu’s gaze landed on a group of paint streaked students toting bags of brushes and sketch pads through the market. He couldn’t help a nostalgic smile from curling his cheeks upward. He remembered the days, not so long ago, where he had been in their shoes, meandering back home from class with bags of groceries and the spare art supply as he needed them. His favorite memories were conversations he shared with vendors, stories learned by those who had seen infinitely more than he ever would in his entire life. 

Atsumu’s mood soon soured at the realization that he recognized the group of students. They were his old classmates, chattering just as vivaciously and exclusionary as they had when they were in the same classes. He was too far to hear their conversation, but he knew what those shared whispers and chuckles sounded like. It’s all he remembered hearing during classes after all.

Those students were always bumming around, lazily scraping and shaving away at their blocks of stone. It was almost as if they’d forgotten that they were artists, preferring to lose themselves in the art of conversation instead of the one they were currently under instruction to learn. Yet, every time Atsumu reminded them of that fact, they seemed to slack off more just to spite him. In fact, they seemed to get worse by the day. Either that or he just progressed at a much faster pace than them. Atsumu preferred to believe the latter.

He had graduated ahead of them, a whole year ahead in fact. He had always known he was more talented than them, which is why he hadn’t cared what they thought of him. Atsumu was more deserving and they were just jealous. Simple as that. Sculpting was a solitary art, so he didn’t mind being alone. He liked it that way. 

He couldn’t place the emotion that overtook him at the sight of their carefree smiles. They seemed just as loose and casual as they had been in class, swaggering through the crowd as though they hadn’t had a single intellectual thought in their entire lives. He wanted to saunter towards them with the same strut in his step and humbly inform them of his current project, one that would undoubtedly set their eyes aflame with jealousy. But, the memory of his workbench drowning in pages of mostly blank half-drawings abruptly came to mind. He stayed seated. 

The students stopped to buy cartons of cherries, tasting them briefly before selecting and purchasing. As they turned to proceed home, their gaze fell on Atsumu. It seemed they recognized him as well. Unsure of what to do, since their last encounter was far from favorable, Atsumu sent them a tentative wave. To his displeasure, they returned it with a collective glare and hurried past, returning to their conversation as though he had been a troublesome bug they had flicked to the side. His smirk sank into a leer that reflected his now completely ruined mood. 

The sun suddenly felt more stabbing than soothing, so he tugged the strap of his bag on his shoulder and rose. Before trudging back home, he paused, losing himself briefly to his thoughts. After a moment, he turned towards the cherry stall and, against his better judgement, bought a carton. 

He balked at the price. He could have just as easily gone to the next stall and purchased a case of mulberries for half the amount of money, but he doled out the payment nonetheless. The coins felt heavy in Atsumu’s hand as he passed them to the merchant.

Arriving home, Atsumu abandoned his bag at the side of his bed and glanced at the chaotic state of his workbench. The walk had done nothing but waste time, and Atsumu’s frustration had returned full force. 

He gathered together the used, and now useless, stationary into a neat pile, which he then placed into the nearest wastebasket. Splashing his face with some water from his canteen, his eyes fell once again on the oppressive slab of marble standing in the corner of the room. 

He was beginning to feel quite faint. The last time he had eaten, he couldn’t remember. He was always bad at that sort of thing, often absorbing himself so much in his art that he forgot his health. Fishing a handful of cherries from his bag, he quietly snacked, ignoring the juice dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt. He vaguely recalled his distaste for the fruit, but hunger dominated his focus as he sat on the edge of his bed and silently chewed. It was at times like these, that he was glad his studio doubled as his bedroom, because he wanted nothing more than to pass the fuck out as soon as possible. 

When he felt slightly more satisfied, he sank into the spot of sunset crawling across the sheets, and fell into a deep sleep. 

~

The figure came to him in a dream. Its presence was paralyzing, sheer power radiating from its form. A man. Tall, strong, captivating and repulsive all at once. He was the world’s largest contradiction; a beautiful monster, domesticated wildness, a mournful exultation. His skin was like that of a dragon fruit, tiny moles littering the porcelain flesh like dark seeds. He drew Atsumu in and spat him back out, leaving him with no semblance of himself or anything around him. Nothing existed except him and the figure.

Atsumu was frozen in place by his stare, both piercing and forgiving. So many emotions lay beneath the lifeless expression and Atsumu’s greatest desire was to chip away at the cold exterior and uncover the fiery hot passion beneath. He willed himself to reach out, grasp some part of this elusive being. Tangibility, solidity; something, anything concrete that would give him some sense of understanding. 

Yes. All his life he had gone without understanding, never comprehending, never fully grasping anything **real** . Drowning in this dusky dreamworld of disparity, all Atsumu wanted to do was understand. He didn’t just **want** to understand -- he **needed** to understand. He just wish he knew what. 

All he could do was sit back and indulge in the mere aura of this divine creature. 

~

He awoke with a start, heart clawing at his chest. There was an aching, hollow longing for something he couldn’t place gnawing away at his insides. He felt as though he was going to die, drop dead of this crushing pain. He clambered about, feeling every inch of his skin in an attempt to grasp… something. 

He found no relief. Until his eyes settled on his sketch pad. 

Seized by some inexplicable madness, Atsumu rocketed out of bed and lunged for his pencil. He barely had time to rip a page free from its bindings before he began to sketch. 

In the wake of his pencil: broad shoulders and lean muscles formed, narrow hips scribbled above sturdy thighs, with which solid calves bore the weight of. A picturesque model of the human species, the ideal form and figure of the male body. It took Atsumu all of five minutes to draft this sketch, but the intensity of his emotions still rocked his core until he was vibrating so intensely, his pencil began tracking his movements up and down, up and down, up and down. He jolted up and stared at the marble block. 

Atsumu scrapped the sketch altogether and dove head first into his craft. He seemed directionless at first, but the fervor with which he had been seized by was guiding him with a steady hand. Chipping away little by little, the squint of focus never left his features as he worked by the light of the rising moon. 

It was long after the moon had fallen and the sun had burned its path completely through the sky that Atsumu finally collapsed. He had been in non stop motion for hours and his muscles were cramping something fierce. But his reprieve was short, lasting only minutes before diving back in again. He wouldn’t stop -- no, he **couldn’t** stop. He felt as though some force was sat on his shoulders, yanking his puppet stringed limbs to and fro.

A sleepless day and night passed, the sun rising on a weary and weak Atsumu. His movements were heavily fatigued, the pain of his growling stomach overshadowed by the throbbing in his arms. The hammer slipped from his grasp mid swing, and Atsumu hurtled to the ground with it. He wanted to continue, to force himself to work through the pain, but his arms gave out each time he tried to pull himself upright. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, the last image he saw was of pointy elbows and rounded knees. 

~

When Atsumu woke, the first thing he did was retch. He held himself up by the palms of his hands, his body curled inward in an attempt to expel… something. He wasn’t quite sure what. A few dry heaves later and he felt well enough to stand. He reached for his canteen, draining it and lapping at the opening to catch the remaining dregs on his tongue. He stumbled to the kitchen in search of more, but no matter how much he drank, he couldn’t satiate himself. He gave up after gulping down half of his kitchen barrel.

He slowly began to feel more normal, settling himself back into his heavy limbs and aching bones. Trudging back to his bed, he fell face first and buried his nose in the fabric. It smelled of sea breeze and cotton. The softness of it felt alien, for Atsumu had spent the past few days alternating between excruciating uprightness and laying curled on the unforgiving floor. 

He rested there for a moment, allowing his mind to wander, sleep eluding him no matter how desperately he craved it. All Atsumu was sure of was that an odd lust was gnawing at the inner lining of his stomach and the only way to stave it off was to keep sculpting. 

If he kept working like a starved dog, his body would give out in less than a week. Definitely not enough time to finish a piece of this caliber. So, he established a routine.

Atsumu would rise with the sun, immediately setting to work in the light of dawn. Once the rest of civilization had joined him in consciousness, Atsumu would eat. Not much, as he was a bit peeved to discover a decrease in his previously endless appetite. 

Nevertheless, sustenance would provide him the energy needed to continue the day, so he ate without contest. Then, he would work until the sun had passed the highest point in the sky and was beginning its descent. By that time, the heat of the day would have fizzled out and been replaced with much more agreeable weather. Inevitably drenched from head to toe in sweat (Italian summers were notoriously hot and his studio did little in the way of ventilation), Atsumu would place his tools on his bench and head to the market. 

Some days he would peruse and purchase, flitting from booth to booth comparing prices. On others he would simply observe. Seated in the grassy center, catching a faceful of cool air from the occasional breeze, he would analyze the dizzying movement of the marketplace. From the flexing muscles of merchants carrying their wares, to the loose arms of pedestrians slung across each others’ shoulders, he would make endless mental notes to take back to the studio with him. 

When dusk settled in and the marketplace became bare, Atsumu would finally return home. Not daring to waste a single moment, he would gather his tools once more and continue where he left off, toiling until the moon rose, rested, and began to slip from its perch. At that point, he would retire, sinking into his sheets until the blazing sunrise roused him from his slumber. Then the cycle would start once more.

He felt comfortable with this pattern. It was something stable and reliable, much like the solid stone beneath his calloused hands. 

In the middle of a particularly stifling morning, Atsumu noticed a putrid smell pervading the studio, drawing him from the depths of his mind and tethering him back to reality. He laid his hammer and chisel on his workbench and began to search for the potential cause.

His nose led him to his kitchen, specifically to the lowermost cabinet. Upon opening, the stench became infinitely stronger, tugging on Atsumu’s gag reflex with its metaphorical fingers. The cupboard held a single carton of cherries, the ones he vaguely recalled buying on a whim at the marketplace some time ago. 

He couldn’t for the life of him recall the reason; he had always disliked the tart fruit. They had to have been there for quite a while, the once smooth crimson skin blossomed over with gray mold. Rotten to the core. 

Atsumu wasted no time in tossing them into the wastebasket. Plugging his nose with the collar of his shirt to block the nauseating stink, he made his way over to the window and opened it as far as it would go to coax some much needed fresh air into the studio. Blinking the stinging sun from his eyes, he moved back to the marble, and continued his work. 

~ 

The name came to him in another dream. _Kiyoomi_ \-- sacred subject _._ It swirled through his mind like a cherry blossom petal gently tumbling from its perch, allowing itself to be swept away in the tepid air. He had never heard the name before, and yet, he could not seem to unhear it once he finally came to understand what the whispers of syllables sounded like threaded together. It seemed to have been dislodged from the deepest recesses of his mind, and once it was free, it _screamed_ for his attention, his _whole_ attention, _all_ of his attention. 

Rather than tossing himself carelessly into his work at first wake like he usually would, Atsumu sat up with a start, letting his head fall into his hands and mulling over his dream. 

Just the name, nothing else: Kiyoomi. Who the hell was that? 

He parted his lips and experimented saying it aloud, but nothing came out, save for a deep gurgle in his throat. How long had it been since he had spoken to somebody? He couldn’t remember. He tried again.

“Ki… oo… Ki… oo… mi...” Atsumu was breathless. “Kiyoo… mi… Kiyoomi…” He sucked on each syllable like a piece of candy, rolling it around on his tongue to taste every edge. His lips curled around the double vowel so elegantly each time it slipped past his teeth, he couldn’t stop it from tumbling from his mouth over and over again. “KiyoomiKiyoomiKiyoomi,” he giggled, eyes fixated on his cracked fingers, discolored with dust and grime. “Kiyoomi.” 

Silence returned. Atsumu fell backwards into the sheets to stare at the ceiling, his stupid grin slowly settling back into a neutral line. Gleaming moonbeams spilled silver ink on Atsumu’s stomach, splashing light throughout the room. One particular flash caught on an edge of marble, and Atsumu turned, only to nearly have his heart leap out of his chest.

It's eyes. He hadn’t begun detailing yet, facial features just barely being formed in the stone, but the statue’s eyes seemed so violently alive. The flickering moonlight toyed with the edges of irises, dancing shadows emulating movements of fluttering lashes. They were staring right at him.

“Kiyoomi?” He questioned tentatively. A sparkle glimmered in the eye.

Slipping from his perch, he padded over to the creature. Atsumu was dumbfounded. Was this… was this Kiyoomi? The curves of the statue’s cheekbones were jagged, but the moonlight polished the rough edges, and, for a moment, it felt as though Atsumu was staring at his final product. 

Atsumu’s hand was smooth against broad shoulders, fascinated by the curve of the statue’s neck. He ran his finger along the spot over and over again. He barely flinched when he felt a light pressure coil around his wrist. Rather, he welcomed the contact, reveled in the cold solidity. Another pressure on his chin lifted his gaze to fall again on eyes glossy with light, filled with a passion too concentrated to be a mere trick of the light.

There was something here he desperately needed and he searched for it in the light caresses tracing his jaw. Atsumu’s eyes bore into his subject painfully as he grasped the hands that were grasping him. He was begging, pleading, urging, praying--

A cloud scattered the light, broke the spell, and thrust the room into shadows once again. Atsumu sighed, fists now curled around empty air, the eyes back to their prior dullness. 

A sigh. 

“Yer killin’ me. You know that, right?” 

No response. 

~

Kiyoomi was quite literally ruining Atsumu’s life. The only reprieve he had anymore was his trips to the marketplace, and now, those too were tainted with him. Visions of the two of them together: Kiyoomi passing payment in exchange for bottles of milk, Kiyoomi strolling leisurely down the stone walkway, Kiyoomi kneeling to cradle a stray kitten’s cheek, Kiyoomi slipping his slender fingers between Atsumu's own --

He huffed home, finding no solace in his former haven. 

‘I need to fuckin' sleep,’ he thought to himself. 

Upon arriving home, he melted into the sheets, nuzzling into the down covers and losing himself in the swirls of his mind. 

~

Kiyoomi was there, like he always was. He seemed to be everywhere these days, but Atsumu’s subconscious seemed to be where he’d made his home. In the dream, Atsumu was in his studio, bent over his workbench in devoted passion. Not the same haze he recently found himself in, but a more serene headspace, gently swiping charcoals across paper.

A soft hand wound its way into his hair, dragging lightly across his scalp. The touch drew him back to reality, eyelids drooping slightly. A light pull allowed his lolling head to tilt backwards and revel in the beauty above him.

He was so _fucking_ pretty. Atsumu wasn’t sure how he could dream up someone so flawless, but each time his mind wandered away, it always returned to this jaw dropping sight. Gazing down at him, eyes as empty as ever, Kiyoomi gently carded his hands through Atsumu’s hair. They would sit there for hours in his dreams, simply studying one another. Atsumu mentally counted each crease by Kiyoomi’s eyes, each mole on his neck, tucking the information deep into his mind to bring back to reality when he inevitably awoke. 

The dreams got longer and more frequent the more details he made on the sculpture. It was as if Kiyoomi was encouraging him, urging him to include every detail of his person, so as to make the sculpture as accurate a representation as possible. But Atsumu didn’t mind; he was more than happy to spend more time in dreamworld with Kiyoomi. 

He wanted so desperately to touch him, outside of his mind. 

He settled for soft caresses of cold marble and continued his work.

~

What previously would have taken him months, or even years, to create, was complete in a mere six weeks:

Curly tufts of hair like water cascading down the cliff of a jaw, pooling at the nape; connecting seamlessly to an expansive back, hilly and bumpy with bones; the steady descent of the spine, even lumps leading down to the curve above the sacrum, two dimples accenting the space; shoulder blades arching above ribs, a ladder on each side allowing one to climb their way to the hips, protruding from the torso like breaking waves on the shore of cloth; a loose draping concealing the cavern of procreation, the fabric tumbling down femoral ridges and tibial crests; the shins were strong pillars, anchoring the gleaming stone and keeping it upright.

It was beautiful. _He_ was beautiful. Atsumu refused to believe this idol before him had been crafted by his own hand, molded from the gentle whittle of his instruments. 

He traced a finger crusted with dust along the statue’s jaw, small stripes of powder streaking the valley of the neck in his wake. He traced and traced and traced until his hands had touched every part of the sculpture. He traced until the unyielding stone softened into warm skin, moving his hands across each joint to grant the gift of motion. He traced until Kiyoomi lifted his arms to join him, hands interwoven in an exploration of his body, reaching and touching in tandem together. 

Once each corner had felt the warmth of both hands, Kiyoomi gently cupped Atsumu’s jaw, pulling him impossibly close yet keeping him entirely too far. Their eyes searched each other desperately -- Kiyoomi’s cold and guarded, Atsumu’s teary and forlorn -- fingers never ceasing to move across each other’s skin. Time floated around them, minutes nudging seconds, hours crashing into days, generations blending into each other until the distinctions between them were null. An amalgam of temporality. Kiyoomi leaned in. 

Atsumu’s eyes fluttered shut. Rubbing circles into his cheek, Kiyoomi brushed his nose against Atsumu’s, eliciting a weak sigh from the latter. His chest felt unbelievably full. 

Kiyoomi was so close. Atsumu parted his lips and --

“‘TSUMU!”

Atsumu jolted, skin prickling with shock. Whipping his head towards the sound, he was startled to find two boys, approximately his age, lingering by the open door to his studio. One of them held a key in their hand. 

“The hell are ya doin’?” The one with gray hair deadpanned, head tilted in confusion. “Havin’ a starin’ contest with yer sculpture?”

Sculpture… Surely the stranger couldn’t mean Kiyoomi. Atsumu turned, only to discover he was clutching pure marble. What once was Kiyoomi, was now lifeless stone. 

“Jeez, looked like ya were ‘boutta make out with it or somethin’,” the gray haired male mumbled. Ignoring Atsumu’s perplexed expression, he made his way to the kitchen, his fox-faced companion following suit. Producing a large container from the bag at his side, he cleared away the messy counter and plopped his goods on the counter. 

Atsumu’s brain felt muddled. 

Surely… surely those two had seen him… right? After all, Kiyoomi had been right there, fully flesh and bones in Atsumu’s room. He had even felt the warmth radiating from his skin, the fine hairs on his arms, the taught muscles underneath. He had been right there, he had been so close, so real and so ---

“Yo, ‘Tsumu, you good?”

Atsumu’s head shot up. He eyed the two strangers, who were clearly beginning to look uncomfortable. 

“Osamu,” the dark haired male whispered. “Is he okay?”

At the sound of his brother’s name, the fog clouding Atsumu’s brain cleared away. He opened his mouth and a garbled sound came out before, “‘S-’Samu… What’re ya… doin’ here?”

The gray haired Osamu began to unpack the box on the counter, a mouthwatering smell rising from the container and filling the room. “Workin’ on a new recipe. Thought ya might wanna taste test.” His eyes skimmed over Atsumu’s newly gaunt frame. “Looks like ya could use it too… When’s the last time ya ate?”

Atsumu followed his brother’s gaze downward and took note of the shadowy contours of his arms, much bonier and thin than they had been a few weeks ago. He rolled his fingers together, noticing their new roughness. The tips of them were freezing. “...Don’t remember…”

Osamu and his partner exchanged worried glances. “‘Tsumu, what in tha world happened to ya?”

Atsumu said nothing. Instead, he turned pensively, crouching down to sit on the stool in front of the statue. Osamu sighed. 

“Suna, go to the market and get some stuff to put in the cabinets. I’m gonna need a sec,” Osamu mumbled. Suna nodded and made his was to the door. 

Atsumu broke from his reverie when his brother placed a hand on his shoulder. Osamu had always been the stoic twin, so seeing a glimmer of concern in his expression was unnerving, even in Atsumu’s current state. He nodded his head to the kitchen. Atsumu followed.

~

“Ya ever heard tha name Kiyoomi?” 

Atsumu was taken aback by the evenness of his own voice. His throat burned fiercely from lack of use, and, as if he could sense it himself, Osamu slid him a glass of water. He accepted it graciously. Osamu seemed to ponder the question for a moment before answering. 

“Mmm, don’t think so. Why?”

Atsumu shook his head and rested his chin on his arms. “No reason.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two. Osamu craned his neck, trying to catch Atsumu’s lowered gaze. “Is that it’s name?”

“What?”

“The statue. Is that it’s name?”

“Yeah… The statue...”

Osamu had never seen Atsumu so devoid of energy. Usually he was leaping bounds across the city, running in a million different directions for seemingly no reason at all and little regard for what others might think. This shell of his brother was not a welcome sight. 

“So... what is it?” Osamu implored gently. Atsumu raised a questioning brow. “Tha sculpture, dumbass. What’s it for?”

Both of their gazes shifted to the figure in the corner. It kept its gaze on the wall opposite. “He’s a commission.”

“Oh? For who?”

“The Visconti,” Atsumu mumbled, absentmindedly. 

Osamu choked. “T-The Visconti? Like, the Visconti of Milan?” He tried to mask his surprise as best as he could, refusing to give his brother the satisfaction of seeing him so aghast. He knew Atsumu was talented, but he didn’t think he would get recognized this quickly. 

Atsumu barely reacted, merely thumbing a stray crack in the wooden countertop. Osamu didn’t like the squeeze of discomfort he felt in his chest. 

There was a new context here, one that Osamu wasn’t quite sure how to navigate. He couldn’t figure out when things had changed this much. Sure they had gotten their own places and went their separate ways, but had his brother managed to matured past his needless boasting and fierce competitiveness so quickly? Osamu continued to probe awkwardly. 

“When are ya sendin’ it off?”

This caught Atsumu’s attention. His head shot up like someone had dumped a canteen of frigid water down his back. “Sendin’ him off?” 

“Well… yeah,” Osamu stated. “Like you said, it’s a commission, right?”

Atsumu looked bewildered. If Osamu didn’t know any better (and he did), he would’ve guessed that his brother hadn’t given that reality any thought yet. He felt an unwitting pang in his chest at the brief hint of fear in Atsumu’s eyes. What exactly was this statue to him?

He watched Atsumu’s eyes dart to the figure, losing himself in his reverie once again, slightly more wistfulness in his voice when he said, “Hmm… Guess I forgot.”

Osamu took this moment to observe the statue himself. It wasn’t anything particularly astounding when put next to the thousands of things Atsumu had created in his past. Sure, there were clear signs of his improvement: more sensible proportions, sharper features, smoother finish. But nothing to write home about. 

“Shouldn’t ya send a letter or somethin’? For them to pick it up?” 

“... Yeah… I’ll do that.” 

He sounded so far away. Osamu probed once more, desperately trying to get some sort of reaction out of him. 

“Y’know, Kita wanted to come too.”

Atsumu’s eyes stayed on the statue.

“But he wasn’t sure if you’d… wanna see him again.”

“Hm…”

“He really wants to see you, ‘Tsumu. He doesn’t want you to--” Osamu breathed deeply, hoping that he could find the right words to say in the air around him. Like always, he came up short. “He just wants to make sure yer okay.”

“... Oh… Okay…”

The atmosphere shifted briefly in the spaces between those two words. It struck Osamu that he didn’t recognize the person in front of him at all. Where he previously thought he saw familiar golden locks overgrown by dark roots, instead he saw muddy strands consuming yellowy hair. The slope of his nose caked with dirt was rocky and jagged, nothing like the initial smoothness that they shared. The rigid jaw, the rounded shoulders, nothing was right, nothing was normal, nothing was **‘Tsumu** _._ And that terrified Osamu beyond belief. 

Fueled by uncertainty and a little bit of fear, Osamu lunged for the collar of Atsumu’s shirt, sinking his fist into the dirty fabric to pull his brother back to Earth. He felt like he was grabbing a ragdoll, Atsumu’s body being tossed around by his brother’s unsteady and angry hand. Osamu wanted to break his fucking nose.

“Look I get it, ya took the breakup hard, but for fucks sake, what the hell is wrong with ya?” And for extra measure -- “What’dya think Kita would say?”

Nothing could’ve prepared him for his brother’s response: “Who’s Kita?”

Osamu was about to shove him against the wall and beat him senseless for having the nerve to joke around at a time like this, but one glance at his expression was enough of a confirmation. Not an ounce of recognition could be found in his eyes; he truly had no idea who his ex-boyfriend was. 

Panic thrummed in Osamu’s blood. They’d only been apart for a few months after Atsumu graduated and moved out because he needed his own space to work in (“Space without yer annoyin’ ass in it”, as he so graciously put it). What happened to his infuriating brother with his false bravado and pride? What happened to the person he spent his entire life besides, soaring the ups and downs with, learning and growing from? Where had his brother gone?

A foul odor overwhelmed Osamu. He glanced down once more and noticed how truly disgusting his brother had become. He looked like he hadn’t showered in weeks, or even months. So Osamu did the only thing he knew how to. 

“C’mon you blockhead,” he quipped. “We’re gettin’ you a shower.”

~

He swiped suds on yellow hair, scrubbing away the grime and grit in his brother’s scalp. Atsumu was seated limply on the edge of the tub, eyes distant and empty, allowing for his coat of muck to be stripped from him, layer by layer. He said nothing as his skin was rubbed raw and red, hair doused in bubbles, pores finally breathing air again for the first time in weeks. Osamu scrubbed until the water ran clear. 

Suna returned from the market to the sound of light humming and the scent of soap. He peeked into the bathroom to find Osamu desperately digging through layers and layers of dirt, hoping to find the brother he had lost to time somewhere in the muck. 

~

The Atsumu staring back at him now was nothing like the one he had initially arrived to see. His hair was gleaming, the true color of his skin shining against fresh clothes. He still had a hazy gaze in his eyes, but this was at least a start. Osamu wanted him so desperately to say something, anything, but Atsumu stayed silently pensive.

Suna had gone outside already, and Osamu stood by the door with his things. 

“Well, I’m off,” he said.

“Okay.”

Osamu pointed a finger at him, “I’ll be comin’ in and out from now on okay? Gotta make sure yer takin’ care of yerself.”

“Okay.”

“Eat the stuff in the cabinets.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And **clean** yerself every now and then.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Osamu breathed deeply. “Then I’m headin’ out.” He had his hand on the doorknob when a small voice behind him spoke:

“... Hey ‘Samu?”

He glanced back to see his brother standing alone in his room, looking terribly fragile. “Yeah?”

“... Thank you.”

“... For what?”

Atsumu’s gaze dropped to his feet. “For… for everything… Yer… yer a good brother.”

Osamu wanted to punch him in the nose. Instead, he said, “Yeah… ‘Course...”

Atsumu’s gaze floated back to the statue in the corner. Osamu opened the door. 

“See ya ‘Tsumu.”

“Bye ‘Samu.”

~

Once his brother had closed the door behind him, Atsumu found himself drifting towards the statue. He stood there for a moment, allowing the silence left in Osamu’s wake to consume him. 

It was so quiet. Osamu never made much noise but at least he _breathed_. Now the room was presenceless, the only breaths coming unevenly from Atsumu’s own mouth. 

It was then that Atsumu realized how much he truly hated being alone. He couldn’t stand it, the emptiness, the stillness, it all screamed at him from every direction. The deafening silence shot fire through his blood. 

But there, right in front of him there, a face mocked him. Its stony expression taunted him, daring him to do… something. He couldn’t tell what. But it was so infuriating, and Kiyoomi was so _fucking_ pretty, and Atsumu wanted to smash his fucking face in. In a fit of passion, he lunged for his chisel and hammer, and then for Kiyoomi. 

The chisel was poised between Kiyoomi’s eyes, hammer ready to strike the final blow that would destroy the perfectly symmetrical face that had been slowly unravelling Atsumu’s sanity inch by inch. He couldn’t stand something so pretty, something so perfect to mock his loneliness. He hated his stupid face with every ounce of his stupid being and he wanted to be the one to destroy it before it could destroy him. 

Atsumu rocked back the hammer in an arch and brought it down swiftly, stilling just before impact. 

But Kiyoomi just stared back, expressionless as always. Stony faced, smooth marble features, nothing to hint at any sign of emotion at all. Atsumu knew Kiyoomi could stop him at any time, could clutch Atsumu’s hand in his wrist like he had before, and prevent him from delivering a fatal blow. 

But he didn’t. He stayed as still as always, willingly succumbing to whatever fate Atsumu decided was suitable for him. Staring with colorless eyes. 

A tear finally broke past the dam of Atsumu’s lower lid, which gave way to another and then another and soon enough, Atsumu was crumpled on the ground, clinging to the strong calves of the person who was slowly bringing him to madness. 

“It hurts,” he heard someone wail. He heard _himself_ wail. “It hurts so bad.”

He pressed his forehead into the cold hardness of Kiyoomi’s legs. 

“It hurts, Omi. Omi, it hurts so bad.”

A few sob filled moments passed, until Atsumu heard the swift swish of moving fabric, knees awkwardly bumping his cheek, and suddenly there were arms around him. Suddenly he was crying into a shoulder, one so rigid and yet so forgiving, and as he felt a dampness spread across his shirt, he knew the shoulder was crying back.

~

When Atsumu woke, he got dressed. He washed his face, ate some of the food Osamu had brought, slung his bag over his shoulder, and tossed an old sheet over the statue’s head before heading out into the city. 

He immediately regretted it. Everything felt so painfully bright and loud. He felt as though he had a perpetual hangover, unable to stand anything that triggered his senses in the slightest. He was glad the courier’s station was only a few blocks away from his studio. 

Hurriedly, he penned a letter to the Visconti of Milan that their piece was ready to be taken. They were to arrive in a fortnight to retrieve their art, upon which payment shall be made and Atsumu would finally be relieved from this abomination that had consumed his existence. 

Returning home, he dropped his bag, collapsed on his bed, and fell asleep once again. He wouldn’t wake for ten days.

~

Osamu visited intermittently throughout those ten days, force feeding him spiced broths and thick puddings. Atsumu didn’t have much of an appetite, eating but almost always throwing up afterwards. Doctors visited, but were unable to deduce a diagnosis. He was ordered to bed rest for the indefinite future.

He drifted along the edge of consciousness, sometimes popping in and out of reality, but never enough to speak full sentences. Osamu visited as often as he could, opting most nights to fall asleep at his brother’s side. 

There were many moments, when Atsumu managed to open his eyes for more than a few seconds at a time, that he noticed his brother clutching Suna with as much force as he could muster, crying softly into his shoulder. Suna carded his fingers through his hair and rocked him back and forth until he could finally breathe again, whispering sweet nothings into his ear the whole time. Atsumu hated it. He forced his eyes shut again and floated back into unconsciousness. 

He dreamed constantly of Kiyoomi. Time blended so finely, as did the images and the feeling of Kiyoomi’s skin on his, hips rubbing hips, foreheads touching foreheads. He hated the fleeting moments of consciousness where he could feel cool compresses on his face instead of Kiyoomi’s warm fingers on his cheek. 

Atsumu was vaguely aware that Kita had visited him once during this time. 

Funny, he felt nothing, much like Kita must have when they had parted for the last time. He opened his eyes wide enough to see light brown eyes scrunched in worry above him, only to shut them once more to search for the obsidian irises that shone in his dreams. 

~

On the tenth night, Atsumu felt a tingle on his cheekbone. This didn’t feel like the cold swipes of Osamu’s fingertips on his forehead. These were warm, soft yet sturdy, tracing the contours and grooves of his face, savoring each inch of skin. 

His eyes fluttered open to see the deepest pools of black staring back at him. Kiyoomi was hovering over him, wordlessly observing. Atsumu felt more normal in that moment than he had in months.

He sat up, Kiyoomi grasping his hand to pull him to stand. They stood like that for a moment, allowing Atsumu to shake off the haziness of the dreamsleep he had been so deeply lost in. Silver knives of moonlight sliced their skin, cross sectioning biceps and abdomens, chopping them into baseless pieces of anatomy, simply a mound of body parts piled on top of each other. 

Atsumu wanted to take themselves apart and put them back together again, in a way that they would always have a part of the other to carry with them. Kiyoomi with Atsumu’s arm, Atsumu with Kiyoomi’s leg, ears and noses swapped, shoulders exchanged for hips: a chimera of mixed appendages.

“Omi…” Atsumu’s voice scraped the air, coming out as more of a sob than a whisper. Anguish folded into the creases of his brow, lips trembling. “Please…”

Kiyoomi nodded, and for the first time since his inception, Atsumu saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes. Intrigue? Admiration? Love? Atsumu didn’t care. 

He wanted to feel all those emotions and more. He wanted to feel everything Kiyoomi would let him feel, and then some. He wanted to draw more emotions out of him, reach into his center and pluck out feelings he hadn’t even felt himself before. He craved numbness, the sensation of being so overwhelmed by feelings that he couldn’t even feel anything at all. None of it made sense.

But that’s all Kiyoomi was: contradiction. He was hideously beautiful, unbreakingly fragile. Atsumu wanted to drown in his soul. 

For him, solitude was comfort.

But Atsumu was quickly realizing that he fucking hated comfort.

So he allowed himself to get lost in the black holes of Kiyoomi’s eyes. They were asking him something, silently but very clearly. Atsumu smiled and nodded in response.

A hot hand on his cheek, the other on his hip, searing his skin until it was emblazoned with the outline of his palm. Atsumu kept his eyes open this time, waiting until the last moment, until their lips finally touched, to let his eyelids flutter shut. 

They kissed, molding their lips together until they fused into one. Shared mind, shared body, shared soul. Atsumu’s legs felt numb, pins and needles shooting up his flanks until they curled around his shoulders. The only thing he knew was that Kiyoomi was kissing him, and he never wanted him to stop. The feeling didn’t dissolve, only enhanced, when Kiyoomi curled his lips around Atsumu’s lower one and pulled away gently. Atsumu collapsed in Kiyoomi’s hold, releasing one last exhale before his muscles went limp and he was finally still.

~

“Oi, Omi! Ya don’t have ta read everythin’ y’know!” A sharp voice echoes throughout the exhibit hall. 

“Mah, TsumTsum leave him alone! He looks like he’s having fun!”

Sakusa, the subject of their yapping, is hunched over reading the thousandth artifact label of the day. They hadn’t even gone through half of the museum yet because Sakusa insisted on reading each and every card. 

“Maybe if you took the time to learn how to read things, Miya, you’d be more appreciative of the art around you,” Sakusa quips back without a glance back. The voice, belonging to one Atsumu Miya, simply huffs.

“Yer takin’ too long though! I’m gettin' bored.”

Sakusa sighs. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, asshole.”

The MSBY Black Jackals, a top tier volleyball team in Japan’s D1 V-League, was currently on a press tour in Florence, Italy. Although normally having a packed schedule, one of their managers had suggested that the team take some time to ‘bond’ and visit a museum together. It would be a perfect opportunity to go sightseeing while also ‘fostering a sense of camaraderie’. Bickering over where to go should’ve been the first sign that this trip was destined to fail, but eventually they flipped a coin and decided on one of the several art galleries in the city that they couldn’t pronounce even if they tried. 

They had broken up into groups, so as to not be a nuisance to the general public, like they normally were when together (although, that notion seemed to directly contradict the grouping of Koutarou Bokuto, Shouyou Hinata, Atsumu Miya, and Kiyoomi Sakusa). Which led to now: Atsumu impatiently lagging behind with Sakusa, as Koutarou and Shouyou bounded ahead, flitting back to the two every now and then. 

“Hmmm, it’d be pretty nice if it did though, right Bokkun?” Atsumu jokes. “I wish the world revolved around me.”

“I’m sure the world would implode before it could make a single revolution around your big, fat head,” Sakusa grumbles. 

“Hey!” Atsumu shouts. He touches his fingers to his hair. “My head’s not **that** big--”

“Atsumu!” Shouyou shouts from across the exhibit hall, receiving a fierce glare from Sakusa. “Come check this out!”

Atsumu makes his way to Shouyou and Koutarou, Sakusa trailing behind, hesitant to skip so many artifacts. He’s about to say something, but once he lays eyes on the sculpture before him, he is enraptured.

It’s a massive full body, an intricately detailed two person piece of a sculptor and his subject. Sure, it was astounding on its own, but the real shock was in the sculptor’s expression. Eyes with a loving lilt, stupid grin curving on his lips, he looked head over heels for his subject. It was the type of piece that makes you wonder if you would ever be as happy as the subjects within the art. 

Facing his sculpture, a seemingly expressionless slab of marble, it was a wonder how the sculptor could be filled with such passion. They seemed to be communicating with their gaze alone.

“This sculpture, originally dedicated to a noble family in northern Italy, was kept instead by the family of the sculptor, who had disappeared not long after the piece’s completion,” Sakusa says, reading aloud the artifact label. “No one knows where the sculptor went, why he left, or who the subjects of the sculpture are. All they left behind was the finished product.”

For once in his time with the Black Jackals, Sakusa was satisfied to say that his teammates were speechless. He also couldn’t help but think the piece was pretty impressive. He couldn’t imagine the dedication it must have taken the sculptor to make such a thing. He also couldn’t imagine the mess it must’ve made (correction: he refused to imagine). He's about to turn back to look at the artifacts he had been forced to skip, when Shouyou, head cocked in curiosity, suddenly speaks.

“Hey, don’t you think they kind of look like Atsumu and Sakusa?”

At this, the two singled out teammates splutter.

“Course not!”

“Ew. Gross.”

They shoot each other venomous glares, while Koutarou laughs heartily. “Haha, they kind of do!” 

Sakusa scrunches his nose in disgust and ignores them, electing to return to his previous task of ensuring each artifact got equal attention. Koutarou and Shouyou already found something else to fawn over, and bound away with excited cries. 

Before turning back to pester Sakusa some more, purely for the hell of it this time, Atsumu pauses at the base of the statue and stares. 

Honestly, he couldn’t blame the sculptor for looking so in love. His subject was pretty cute.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the link to the tweet that inspired this story:  
> https://twitter.com/onniegiri/status/1242304472262434816?s=20


End file.
